First Impressions
by manacled
Summary: Draco and Hermione’s first impressions of each other led to mutual dislike over all these years, and both are finally forced to come to grips with their own initial mistakes, and realize what the future awaits them.


Summary: Draco and Hermione's first impressions of each other led to mutual dislike over all these years, and both are finally forced to come to grips with their own initial mistakes, and understand what the future awaits them.

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Disclaimer: I own nothing. 

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Author's Note: Please spare a little time to take a look at this fiction and give me your opinions. It was inspired by my reading of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.

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First Impressions

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Chapter One 

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It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. – Jane Austen 'Pride and Prejudice'

Draco Malfoy knocked at the door lightly, and opened it, to find Dumbledore seated in his chair, placing his two hands under his chin. The former haughtily strode in, gently closing the door behind him as he eyed Dumbledore suspiciously. The Headmaster nodded at his presence. 

"Have a seat." He said warmly, and rolled his chair forward, leaning closely towards his desk. Draco elegantly sat on the chair, and rested both his elbows on the arm rest, looking at Dumbledore expectantly, "Is there anything you'll like to say to me, sir?" He said coolly. 

"Yes, Draco." Dumbledore nodded, and stood up from his seat, walking towards Fawkes, who was perched on the metal railing. "In fact, this piece of news may be a rather harsh blow for you."

"Please do say," Draco said impatiently, but with politeness. 

"Lucius Malfoy is dead."

There was a slight pause, and Dumbledore swiftly turned to look at the boy. Draco's eyes blinked a couple of times, and there was a slight twitch behind those stolid grey eyes. "W-what?" His voice faltered slightly. 

Dumbledore slipped back into his seat, his warm gaze never leaving Draco's apathetic silvery ones as he leaned back into his seat comfortably, placing both arms on the armrest. 

"Are you serious, sir?" Draco questioned hoarsely. Though his expressions and actions were perfectly controlled mentally, his voice gave away the unexplainable emotions which seemed to control his body at that very moment. 

Dumbledore nodded his head gravely. He opened his mouth, about to speak when Draco suddenly sprang out from his seat.

Dangerously, he slammed both palms on Dumbledore's desk and glared at him, and said darkly, "Is this some kind of sick joke, Professor Dumbledore? How can Father be dead? He's supposed to be in Azkaban!" 

Dumbledore was slightly taken aback, but smiled thinly and waved Draco to be seated. When Draco refused to budge, he commanded with a firm civility, "Draco, please take a seat." 

Draco reluctantly plopped down in the chair, his eyes fixated on Dumbledore, as he sat straighter than ever. 

"Your father, Lucius Malfoy had unsurprisingly escaped Azkaban to reunite with Voldemort and the rest of the Death Eaters. However, he was murdered –"

"Potter did it, didn't he?" Draco silvery gaze grew stormy, his mouth set into a thin line. 

Dumbledore shook his head amusedly, as though he had all along expected such an answer to come out of his mouth, "No. He had nothing to do with anything of this matter –"

"Then who was it?" Draco demanded harshly. 

The Headmaster coaxed him to calm down, as he revealed who the murderer was, "Peter Pettigrew murdered your father."

Draco's eyes perked up from staring at his hands, and he scoffed, "Peter Pettigrew? That little insignificant plebeian could actually kill Lucius Malfoy, my father?" His eyes darkened with hatred and contempt, and soon he resumed to his resolute silence. Dumbledore stared at him with eyebrows raised.

Draco solemnly stood up, and requested to leave. Though his outer appearance displayed cool and collectiveness, his heartbeat thumped furiously, and revenge gripped his heart, as though begging to be given to the perpetrator who had murdered his father. 

The sound of Draco's heels clicking loudly on the floor surface warned everyone to steer clear of the blonde-haired boy. People whispering to each other in the middle of the hallway parted like the Red Sea when they spotted him heading towards their direction, fear and admiration touching their hearts as they cowered at the sight of him. His hair was not slicked back as it always had been, and his face had a slight hue of pink on his face, which was noted whenever he was in a foul mood. And today, unfortunately, was one of them.

He stormed past Blaise Zambini, who was his current girlfriend (according to her), and she was mortified when he did not notice her, not even cast a glance at her. She immediately hurried to the Common Room to share this piece of information to one of her fair-weathered friends, Milicent Bulstrode. 

Finally reaching his destination, he knocked on the door loudly. The door opened and Snape answered. "Draco, what a pleasant surprise." 

"Thank you sir," Draco bowed his head respectfully as he sat on a chair directly opposite of Snape's desk. "I have something that has been bugging me – and I wish for you to clear my doubts."

Snape's face paled considerably, as Draco continued with his speech, "Professor Dumbledore has told me that Father is dead. Is it true that Peter Pettigrew murdered him?" His steely eyes raised and met Snape's. 

"Yes." Snape finally answered, as he regained his composure. Draco watched as his well-respected professor clenched his fists and gritted his teeth derisively, "And Wormtail deserves to die the most horrible death ever possible from my hands –" He splayed his fingers open in a way that caused Draco to shiver slightly.

"You didn't know what happened, Draco. It was horrible," Snape spat, "Wormtail tortured him, and Voldemort said nothing about it. It was all a lie. Your father was framed. Though he was a Death Eater, he didn't deserve to die. He was a good man."

"You saw the whole thing?" Draco spoke with an air of indifference, as he closed his eyes.

"Yes, I did." His tone was acrimonious, "Every gash, every blow, every curse."

With his eyes closed, Draco pictured every intricate detail that Snape had told him about how his father was tortured, than finally killed – for being a traitor and working secretly with Harry Potter to defeat The Dark Lord. Was it true? Draco didn't have a single clue, but he fought to find out – soon enough. 

As Draco strode down the hallways, heading to the Library, he happened to bump into Hermione Granger, who was dutifully carrying a couple of heavy books under her arm, a rather crossed and hectic look on her face. As their eyes met briefly, distrust and mutual contempt seemed to crossover both pair of eyes. Draco Malfoy had not open his mouth to insinuate, and Hermione Granger could not defend herself, but only stare with as much disdain as her eyes could hold. Draco, likewise, held the same look. 

Moments later, incapable of holding the intense glare any moment, Hermione pulled her eyes away and continued to walk on, rather taken aback that Draco for the first time, had not opened his mouth to spit something venomous towards her. It was definitely so unlike of him. Deciding not to pursue the matter, she readily walked on, and hummed softly to herself as she made her way to the Prefect's Bathroom to take a cool and refreshing bath.

Meanwhile, as Hermione had broke the gaze, Draco's eyes were still fixated on her warm amber ones. Beneath the contempt that she had displayed was something unexplainably vibrant and lively. Upon looking down at the books she carried, he felt an uncontrollable surge of emotion wash through him. Was it admiration? 

Shaking his head slightly to drive away the emotion, he tried to rationalise with himself. He had his pride and his social status to think of. How on earth could he admire a mudblood? It was a ludicrous thing for him to think of! Besides, he had a high birth and so much wealth to his name, since now that his dear father was dead, the Malfoy fortune would be inherited by him. And she, just a mudblood, the scum of the earth. She was worth nothing, of compared to him, from a well-established family for centuries of years. With that, he straightened his black robes with his smooth hands, and entered the Library with an air of arrogance. 


End file.
